


Hollow

by ancalime8301



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Binge Drinking, Binge Eating Disorder, Body Image, Community: avengerkink, Depression, Eating Disorders, Gen, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Self-Esteem Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Therapy, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-29 08:29:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8482588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancalime8301/pseuds/ancalime8301
Summary: Tony develops an eating disorder after the events of Captain America: Civil War.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [avengerkink prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/21013.html?thread=53769493#t53769493):
> 
>  
> 
> _With the absence of half the team in the aftermath of the accords disaster and all the hard feelings and pain, Tony has developed an eating disorder. He's been binging as a way to fill the hollowness. When Steve meets up with him, they talk out their issues and come to a point where Cap's team move back in. There's still some tension in the air and Tony continues to binge. When Steve and the team find out they do their best to try and help Tony out of this, but it won't be easy in the least._

The first time, it just sort of happened.

He'd decided to stay at the Tower after visiting Rhodey at Columbia for the first time and ordered a pizza for dinner because it was quicker than ordering groceries. He ordered a large since cold pizza would be a good breakfast.

One hot, cheesy slice after another slid greasily down his throat and he didn't notice what he was doing until he reached for another and the box was empty. He'd finished the whole damn thing. Only then did he feel the discomfort radiating from his overfull stomach. He took a shaky breath and burped on the exhale, some of the pressure easing slightly.

What the hell had gotten into him?

He quickly closed the box, folded it in half as he went over to the trash can, then shoved it as far into the trash as it would go. An overwhelming feeling of shame for what he'd just done drove him from the kitchen and over to the bar for a stiff drink or three.

He wasn't sure what was worse: the sick churning in his gut or the realization that he would've kept eating if there had been more.

 

The second time, he recognized what was going to happen as soon as his takeout order arrived. In his hunger he couldn't decide what to order, so he'd gotten both of the options he'd dithered over.

The smells were heavenly and he remembered the pizza incident six days before, so he went as far as getting a plate and scooping a reasonable amount of food onto it. He left the containers on the counter and sat at the table, thinking surely he would be fine if overeating required getting up again.

He ate it all, standing at the counter shoveling rice into his mouth like someone starving even though he'd already eaten an amount that would, under normal circumstances, be more than enough. He was disgusted with himself even as he scraped the last morsels from the white containers.

The evidence went through the trash compactor twice and into an innocuous plastic bag before being relegated to the trash can.

He swore to himself that it would never happen again.

 

The third time happened four days later.

It had been a bad day all around. The government was pestering him to divulge the location of the missing Avengers even though he didn't fucking know (he suspected, but didn't want to give Ross the pleasure of even that much information). Pepper was on his case about not being more involved with the company now that the avenging thing wasn't happening. Rhodey had a setback, lots of pain in his low back that the doctors were checking out but meant that his physical therapy had been put on hold.

So he'd driven out to some suburb, stopped at one of those sprawling grocery stores, and picked up whatever struck his fancy. Thank goodness for the self-checkout machines; he didn't even have to suffer the scrutiny of some young thing as his assortment of carby, sugary selections were rung up.

An entire bag of potato chips disappeared in the time it took to drive back to the Tower. Once he was safely on the Avengers-only floors, he took off his tie, rolled up his sleeves, and ate.

For a time, it was almost peaceful, just him and the pile of food that he hoped might satisfy the hollow place that demanded to be filled.

He didn't stop until everything, all thirty bucks of the cheap, processed, terrible-for-him food, was gone and he felt sicker than he could ever remember being. All of the sugar made him feel woozy and his attempt to move in order to start clearing away the evidence had him puking all over the crinkled wrappers.

It took him a while to recover enough to clean up his mess, his mouth sour with bile and self-loathing.

 

He was able to eat normally, function normally, put up the appearance for anyone watching that he was just fine, thank you very much, for six days after that. Then suddenly breakfast became an entire box of Pop-Tarts and the whole bottle of orange juice in addition to a couple of eggs and some sausage and he might have eaten more except that he had promised Rhodey he'd be there for a meeting with the doctors.

Even though he couldn't possibly be hungry for hours, he slipped several energy bars into each of his jacket pockets before he left. They were gone before he got to the hospital. The shame at his lack of control dogged him the rest of the day and for several days after.

He settled into something of a routine: following every infraction, he would resume his normal eating habits with careful attention. He would do well for several days and feel a little better about himself despite the gnawing hunger that lurked in the corners of his mind. Then the hunger would become too great and something beyond his control would take over and disgusting amounts of food would pass between his lips and he would hate himself all over again.

 

When Rhodey was allowed to return to the compound, he convinced Tony to come with him. Tony agreed, hoping a change of scenery and some company would shake him out of this disturbing new food habit. The habit became even more disturbing when he realized he'd gained a full ten pounds in the eight weeks Rhodey had been recovering in the city.

Then the letter from Steve arrived and it felt like a gaping chasm had opened beneath him, within him, reminding him of all that he had lost. He waited until Rhodey had gone to bed and Vision left to patrol the perimeter before raiding the cupboards and taking an armful of junk to the office.

He locked himself in and ate like he hadn't since his little shopping trip, except this time he didn't throw up at the end. He couldn't move for a while afterward, his stomach visibly bloated and painfully compressed by his waistband. He tried adjusting his pants and finally had to unbutton them for some physical relief while his mind berated him for being a wretched slob.

He still felt sick with embarrassment and shame the following morning and claimed illness in order to not have to face anyone else until at least lunch time. At lunch he ate moderately and was satisfied. Perhaps there was still a chance that all would be well.

 

He knew Rhodey was keeping a close eye on him after the morning he didn't feel well, and for a while that helped him keep the food itch in check.

Well, for eight days, anyway. After that he figured out ways to slip things into his pockets or up his sleeves in order to stash them in the office or his workshop or his bedroom for later.

His next binge wasn't nearly as dramatic, just several bags of gummy candy less than an hour after a filling dinner. He wasn't hungry and yet he was and he couldn't stop popping the stupid things into his mouth one after another.

He was disgusting.

He threw himself into working on the Accords and negotiating a way for Steve and company to return to the echoing expanse that had been their home and now merely housed a paralyzed veteran, a despondent android, and a waste of space. For a time it seemed like he might be able to return to something more like a normal relationship with food, but each time he got his hopes up they were dashed in a pile of terrible food and a gut filled to bursting.

He was certain that Rhodey had noticed what was going on, had at least noticed that he'd gained weight, but his friend said nothing. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

 

Weeks passed and he continued to fight the compulsion to stuff himself stupid. With a great deal of willpower he managed to keep the incidents down to once a week--once every two weeks if he was doing really well, which he had achieved maybe twice--and the weight gain had peaked at eighteen pounds when the rest of the Avengers returned to the compound.

On the one hand, having so many people around made it much harder to sneak food the way he had been. On the other hand, the strain of coexisting with people who were open about not trusting him made the urge to eat almost unbearable. By raiding his stashes and staging carefully planned late night forays into the kitchen, he was able to scratch the food itch when it arose.

He gained five more pounds that first month. He avoided mirrors except to shave and tried not to look at himself in the shower. He could still wear his clothes, mostly, but there were certain things he had to push to the back of his closet because they clung a little too much to his more rounded frame and he couldn't risk drawing any more attention to it.

He knew better than to think this motley crew of attentive fighters hadn't noticed he'd put on a few pounds. He was just surprised no one had rubbed his face in it yet.

 

And then came the night he was eating the stash he'd kept in the office and Steve walked in. There was absolutely nothing he could do to try to hide or disguise what he was doing, so he leaned back in the chair, put his feet up on the desk, and kept chewing.

An impressive parade of expressions crossed Steve's face as he took in the open drawer and its remaining contents, Tony and his position, and the scattering of empty food wrappers on the surface of the desk. Then he closed the door, leaned back against it, crossed his arms, and said, "Well, this explains a few things."

"I'm sure it does," he said, trying to ignore the embarrassment heating up his face and constricting his throat. He'd just finish the last two donuts and call it a night.

"Why are you doing this?"

"I can't stop," he said hoarsely, acutely aware of the last mouthful of donut as he spoke around it. He longed to melt into the floor from shame.

"It's your choice to do this," Steve insisted.

"If I could choose to stop this, I wouldn't be here right now." And his hand wouldn't be reaching for that candy bar, but there it went. The sickly sweet smell of chocolate and nougat filled the air as the wrapper was opened.

Steve took the candy bar from his hand and threw it forcefully into the garbage. "You have more control than you claim. Why are you sabotaging yourself like this?"

He scrambled to his feet, painfully conscious of the way his body moved and jiggled where it hadn't before and he hated every inch of it. "You have no idea what you're talking about, Rogers," he hissed. "Now either leave or let me leave."

Steve stepped aside and held open the door. "Be my guest."

He hurried out, his head down and his gaze fixed firmly on the ground. In the safety of his locked bedroom he slid to the floor and wished for everything to end. He couldn't think of a more humiliating way for someone to find out about his problem, and for it to be Steve of all people . . .

He seriously considered leaving, either temporarily or permanently, and he didn't just mean the compound.

He'd never considered himself suicidal before, but there on the floor in a body he despised with sugar still clinging to his lips, death seemed like an eminently rational solution. With Pepper out of the picture, the team in shambles, and his mind and body rebelling against him, what was there to live for?

He was weighing his options when there was a light tapping on the door.

Steve said softly, "Tony?"

He held his breath and didn't dare to move.

"Tony, Friday told me you're here."

He scowled. "Fuck off."

Steve sighed. "Is there anything we can do to help?"

He flushed, feeling his eyes begin to sting and a lump form in his throat. Goddamn it, he was NOT going to cry. "I don't know," he said thickly.

"May I ask you a few questions about what's going on?"

"Leave me alone."

"May I ask Friday instead?"

A hot tear streaked down his cheek and he scrubbed it away impatiently. He didn't answer the question.

"Tony, does anyone else know?"

"No, and you'd better not tell them."

"Not even Rhodes?"

He shuddered as another tear followed the first. "You're not telling anyone."

"I won't tell anyone what's going on if you allow me to talk to Friday about this."

"Fine," he said sullenly.

"Thank you. Sleep well, Tony," Steve said softly.

He waited until he heard Steve's footsteps recede, then crawled over to the bed and pulled out the secret shoebox of sweets. He'd already made a fool of himself this evening so he might as well finish the job.


	2. Chapter 2

It took all of his courage to join the team for breakfast the next morning. He wasn't hungry; he was, in fact, suffering from some pretty severe indigestion. But the fewer questions he had to answer, the better, and he'd calculated that fewer questions would arise from choosing toast and tea at breakfast than failing to show up entirely.

He was on his guard all day, warily eyeing Steve and wondering what he thought of whatever he'd learned from Friday. Steve, for his part, didn't seem to treat him any differently than he had the day before.

He was on lunch duty the following day, taking his turn in the usual rotation, and in going through the cupboards to pull the meal together he noticed that someone had cleared out all of the junk-type food. The only things that he could easily take and hoard for later were granola bars, nuts, and dried fruit. He felt a rush of relief and a glimmer of hope even as he pocketed two of the granola bars.

The next day he realized that Steve must have told the team something, because there was always someone with him. Ever since the morning after their conversation, from the time he left his bedroom to the time he went to bed, he hadn't had more than a handful of minutes without someone else nearby, and even those few minutes were usually only because he was using the toilet.

Once he was aware of it, it felt almost stifling. On the other hand, it gave him a way to resist the teasing itch: he couldn't binge, not really, because he had precious few opportunities to rebuild the bedroom stash that he'd demolished the other night and he wasn't alone otherwise.

Knowing the office stash would be gone now that Steve was aware of it also helped him resist, but part of him was comforted that there was still a hoard in the workshop. He had recourse, should the need become overwhelming.

Eventually it did, like he'd known and feared it would. He scarfed down the handful of granola bars and chocolate covered nuts from his bedroom while waiting for everyone to go to bed. Then he padded down to the workshop eagerly, only to find someone had cleared that out, too. Someone, of course, being Steve, because he knew for sure that he hadn't eaten it all.

He experienced a moment of heart-stopping panic before his reason caught up and reminded him there was an entire kitchen mere floors away. Surely the risk of discovery at this hour was low, especially if he just grabbed some food and ate it elsewhere.

Visions of leftover meatloaf and that lovely crumbly thing that Wanda made for dessert that night filled his head as the elevator lifted him to his salvation.

The doors into the room wouldn't open. He pushed and pulled, then demanded, "Friday, what's going on?"

"Your access to these floors has been restricted, boss," she said calmly.

"What? On whose authority?"

"Captain Rogers requested the restriction."

His heart began to race as the panic resurfaced. "What are the delivery options at this hour?"

"I am unable to provide that information at this time."

"Is that Rogers' doing as well?"

"Yes, boss."

Fucking hell. "Well, I'm overriding it. Either let me in or I'm ordering something."

Friday was silent. The doors still didn't open.

"So you're turning on me now? You can be replaced," he said accusingly, a note of hysteria creeping into his voice.

"You are failing to act in your best interest, boss," Friday said finally. "Captain Rogers' instructions are aligned with my programming."

"Who the fuck are you to tell me what's in my best interest?" he demanded.

Friday didn't answer.

His thoughts raced to find alternate solutions. "Am I allowed to leave the building?"

"No, boss."

"What would happen if I tried?"

"The security forces and Captain Rogers would be alerted and all vehicles would be grounded."

Damn, Rogers didn't mess around. He paced restlessly in the short hallway, feeling trapped.

He returned to the workshop since he wasn't going to get into the kitchen short of using explosives and he was capable of just enough rational thought to recognize that was a bad idea. If nothing else, it would attract attention, which was exactly what he didn't want.

He rummaged again through his coffee supplies and assortment of mismatched mugs, hoping Rogers had missed something, anything, but there was nothing. Nothing except his stock of alcohol in a drawer. It was there to be added to coffee and also because he wasn't going to waste his good scotch on people who didn't appreciate it.

Perhaps liquid would be sufficient since he had nothing else. That, too, would be a waste of good scotch, but what else could he do?

He practically chugged the little bit of bourbon, the Irish whiskey, and the brandy, trying to take the edge off of his desperation before he resorted to the scotch. Then he drank that, too, straight from the bottle in long swigs.

In the flush of warmth as the alcohol made its way from digestion to bloodstream, he felt restless and began prowling the hallways, pausing occasionally to drink from the rapidly emptying bottle of scotch.

Somehow he ended up at the basement-level lap pool and decided a swim would be just the thing to cool him down. He cast aside the empty bottle and carefully stepped down the first step. He felt a little shaky after that and sat down awkwardly.

While he waited for the dizziness to pass, he pulled off his wet shoes and socks, enjoying the feel of the water on his toes. It had been a while since he'd gone swimming thanks to the whole hating his body thing, but for now there was no one around to judge him.

He slowly eased himself into the water, clothes and all, and floated on his back for a while. His thoughts were muddled and soft around the edges, like his vision. His clothes quickly became waterlogged, the weight gently holding him in place.

Not that he wanted to go anywhere. The hollow had been drowned for the moment and he wondered in passing why he'd never tried drinking it into submission before. Empty calories were empty calories, and these came with a pleasant buzz. He would have to try it again.

There wouldn't need to be an again if he just let himself sink a little bit more . . .

The thought rose slowly to the surface of his mind and whispered into his ear, echoing slightly in the rapidly growing emptiness within him.

His entire body jerked in surprise when his hand brushed up against the lane divider and his head went under. He flailed reflexively but he didn't know which way was up and his clothes were simply too heavy.

He stopped struggling and let his mind drift, trying to ignore the urgent need for oxygen the way he'd tried to ignore the urgent need to eat. 

 

The next thing he knew he was on his side on cold, unforgiving floor, retching water onto the tile. He groaned weakly, closing his eyes and dragging his hand up to cover his face.

"Tony? Can you hear me?"

Of course it was Rogers, come to save the fucking day. Words refused to form themselves in his mouth, so he settled for another groan.

"Can you sit up?"

He didn't even try. "Why should I?" he slurred.

"How do you feel?"

He heaved a sigh that ended in a cough. "Disappointed."

A long silence followed, broken only by the gentle lapping of the water in the pool.

"Why are you here, Rogers?" He was impressed he managed to string that many intelligible words together with the way his head was shouting at him.

"Friday was concerned and so am I. You're going to kill yourself, Tony."

He didn't dignify that statement with a response.

"You need to go to bed and sleep this off. Can you stand?"

He would have been satisfied to remain where he was, but Rogers wouldn't be satisfied until he'd moved so move he did, albeit slowly. He ached from the core of his being and his legs were trembling and unreliable.

Rogers offered to help him strip off the wet clothes but he swiftly and firmly turned him down. There was no way in hell he would let anyone see him nude while he was still alive. Dead, sure, he had nothing to lose at that point. But for now he liked to imagine he retained a few shreds of dignity. Perhaps he was only fooling himself.

He certainly didn't feel very dignified as he struggled to peel off his clothes but he refused to ask for help from the super soldier lurking on the other side of the closed door. He managed eventually and meekly emerged from the bathroom. Rogers had threatened to wake Rhodey if he didn't cooperate and while Rhodey had seen him at his worst, he didn't want to wake him at this hour with all Rhodey was dealing with. A selfish part of him would prefer dealing with his friend instead of his sometime opponent, but he deserved this, deserved the thinly veiled disdain he could feel emanating his direction as he fumbled his way into bed.

He closed his eyes as quickly as he could to shut out the troubled expression on Rogers' face.

 

He knew it was going to be a bad day even before he opened his eyes. A hangover from hell had his head pounding and his stomach churning without adding anything else to the equation, and from the sound of it there was someone in his room. He slid one eye open to confirm it was Rhodey--the creaking sounds of his wheelchair were unmistakeable--then quickly closed it again, the pain in his head quadrupling from the light stabbing into his skull.

An indeterminate amount of time passed before he was aware of his surroundings again. Rhodey was shifting restlessly and the light he could sense through his eyelids didn't stab through his brain the way it had earlier, so he might as well get this conversation out of the way while he still looked pathetic enough that Rhodey wouldn't yell too loud.

When he finally managed to open his eyes and keep them open, it was no longer Rhodey beside his bed. Instead, Steve was perched in a chair that he'd brought in from somewhere, possibly the office, and reading the newspaper. An actual, physical, paper newspaper. He snorted.

"Good morning," the interloper said, glancing at him over the newspaper.

"Where's Rhodey?" he croaked.

"He had a physical therapy appointment," Steve replied, carefully folding the paper along its original creases, then picked up a plastic bottle of water and set it by his hand on the bed. "You should drink this. If you want something for the headache, I have that, too."

He was too proud to ask for the meds. He took the water, then quickly tugged on his clothing, making sure it was covering him as it was supposed to, and adjusted the sheet to hide his lumps.

Steve stared at him silently and he stared back until he couldn't bear the disapproval he saw. 

"I'm sorry?" he ventured between careful sips of water.

"No you're not," Steve said immediately. "Tell me what you're sorry for, and then maybe I'll believe you."

He remained silent.

"You need to talk to a professional. Since I don't think you'll do that voluntarily, I've asked that the entire team be required to submit to a psychological evaluation. It's not just about you, but last night was the final straw."

His heart fluttered anxiously and he felt sick for reasons entirely separate from the hangover. "If we refuse?" he asked faintly.

"To be part of the team, you have to do the evaluation. It's going to be part of the regular procedure now after anything major happens."

His head pounded in time with his heart.

"I don't want to see you gone, Tony," Steve said earnestly. "What happened last night?"

The question seemed innocuous, but coming from the one who was behind that whole situation, it was too much. "What happened? You happened, Rogers," he snapped. "I had nowhere to go to get what I needed and all I had on hand was my alcohol. So you have only yourself to thank for having to fish me out of the pool."

"What would have happened if you weren't locked out?"

"I would've eaten too much, felt disgusting, and gone to bed."

"Are you sure?"

"It's happened before, so yes."

"So no drunk swimming."

He longed for this conversation to end, for Steve to leave him to his hungover misery. He badly needed a shower, assuming his legs would cooperate long enough to get him there. He could feel sweat beading on his forehead and collecting in all of the skin crevices he didn't want to admit to having. "Nope. If I drink, it's afterward, and by then I don't want to move."

"Why didn't you wake me? Maybe I could have helped."

He snorted. "If I woke you, it would've been in the suit so I could kick your ass."

"Does it fit?" Steve seemed startled by the question that slipped out, and he immediately began to apologize. "I'm sorry, that--"

"Was way below the belt. Fuck you," he said, flushing with anger. "Get out."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that," Steve said, rising from the chair. "I'll leave if you promise you aren't going to try to kill yourself again."

Confusion momentarily overcame his ire. "What? No? No. I'm not planning to off myself. What the hell?"

"With what happened last night, I had to wonder. Most people don't try to go swimming while they're drunk, Tony."

"I was hot," he said defensively. "Now leave."

Steve dropped another water bottle and a bottle of pills onto the bed, then took the chair and left.

He took two of the pills and closed his eyes for a while. When the thumping in his head subsided slightly, he ventured out of bed in favor of the bathroom. By the time he'd gotten there and relieved himself, his legs were wobbly enough that a shower didn't seem wise. He didn't have a death wish, really.

A bath would solve the problem, since he wouldn't have to stand, he could get clean without having to touch himself, and, if he used something bubbly in the water, he wouldn't even have to look at himself. Perfect.

The heat of the water also helped relax things he hadn't realized were tense. He sighed and leaned his head back against the edge of the tub. The thing that troubled him most about what Rogers had said wasn't that he'd said it. It was long past time for a teammate to comment on his weight. No, it was that he didn't know the answer. He liked to think it would work out since the suit could adjust itself to a certain degree, but he hadn't been in the suit for months. The thought that it might not fit was disturbing.

He didn't have to wait long to find out the answer.


	3. Chapter 3

He rejoined team life the morning after the hangover from hell, only to find that some of his teammates were trying to convince Steve that an Avenger-on-Avenger mock skirmish was a good idea. "It's been too long since we've had any real fights," was one argument. "We're getting out of shape," was another. "We need to know our current capabilities," was a third.

He kept his head down and his attention focused on his (normal-person-sized) breakfast. He didn't like the idea generally, didn't like its similarity with what had happened in Germany, didn't like that it would force him to confront the issue of his changed body in a combat situation, didn't like that it was likely to reveal to everyone just how out of shape and disgusting he was.

Steve relented by the end of breakfast. The skirmish would occur after lunch.

While some of the team discussed ground rules, he slipped out and went down to his workshop under the pretense of checking over his armor. Rhodey joined him after a while, looking forward to using his new suit, designed to accommodate the walking braces and provide extra support to his lower half.

Testing that redesign in flight was the last time he'd worn his own suit--he'd had to be nearby and ready to intervene should the worst happen--and they'd done that within their first couple of months back at the compound.

Rhodey's anticipation only increased his anxiety, and he snapped, "The last time you fought them, Vision shot you out of the sky. Why are you looking forward to this?"

Rhodey studied him silently for a moment. "Do me a favor and stand still for a minute."

He hadn't noticed he was pacing like a caged tiger. He came to a stop behind his computer screens and perched on his chair, his hands drumming restlessly on the table.

"It's just capture the flag with weapons. Only non-lethal force is allowed. It's not like we'll be fighting to the death."

"We weren't last time, either, and look what happened."

"I appreciate your concern, but I'll be fine. That sort of situation isn't going to happen today."

"You don't know that. You can't know that."

"No one is going to try to escape today, Tony. And if they do, I don't have to chase them down."

"Don't you mean we don't have to chase them down?"

Rhodey shook his head. "Steve and I already picked our personnel. You're not on my side this time."

"Why's that?" he asked, trying to sound casual despite the knot in the pit of his stomach.

"Steve picked you first."

Surprise dissipated the crawling feeling of betrayal, then morphed into suspicion. He could think of a few reasons Steve might want him under his watchful eye and he resented all of them.

 

He didn't have much of an appetite at lunch, especially once Steve and Rhodey started explaining the ground rules of the game and mapping out the boundaries of the exercise. After they ate they split up into their teams to strategize.

Steve, Sam, and Clint did the talking while he silently debated whether he could back out. Before he could try, he was assigned to defend the area they'd decided was their base from above while Clint was ground support. Sam and Steve would seek out and attempt to retrieve the other team's flag (they'd borrowed two of Clint's arrows and tied a white handkerchief to each shaft to serve as the flags).

Their plans made, they dispersed to gear up.

He approached his armor with trepidation, glad that Rhodey had already suited up and left. He had his earpiece in and could hear the others chatter as they made their way outside, but still he hesitated. Finally he took a deep breath, sucked in his gut, and stepped into the suit.

It was a tight squeeze, much tighter than he would have liked, but it closed. He released a small sigh of relief--he couldn't breathe more deeply than that, there wasn't enough room--and flew out to join his compatriots.

Their base was a copse of trees at one end of the compound, so they had him take the arrow most of the way up a tree and stick it into the trunk. It was clearly visible, provided the opposing team thought to look up.

To avoid giving away the flag's location, he and Clint began patrolling the perimeter of the trees. He used the opportunity to fly amongst the trees, dodging and veering between the trunks to give himself some practice.

"You okay up there?" Clint asked over the comm.

"Yeah, just rusty," he replied. The admission was harmless enough.

"Well, you might want to duck," Clint said off-handedly.

He saw movement in the corner of his display, then something impacted the side of his head before Friday could say, "Incoming."

He pulled the arrow off his helmet, noting the suction cup in place of the arrowhead. "Thanks for that, Barton," he said dryly.

"Anytime," came the cheerful response.

He waited until Clint wasn't looking, then sent a repulsor blast whizzing by his ear that may have singed a bit of hair. Clint's yelp of surprise was quite gratifying.

The only thing that kept him from being bored as the game began was watching what was happening on the diagram Friday helpfully included in the display and listening to Steve and Sam discuss tactics as they worked their way toward the other flag. Then, finally, there was movement in their direction. "We've got Wanda and Natasha approaching along the north boundary," he reported.

"Bring it on, ladies," Clint said, readying his bow.

As soon as they were within sight, Wanda engaged both of them while Natasha slipped past and into the trees. Since there wasn't much to fling at her opponents, Wanda resorted to capturing them in her energy and bodily moving them around.

He kept an eye on Natasha by way of the diagram, and was alarmed when he realized she was closing in on the flag. "Nat's almost got it," he said urgently to Clint. "Try to keep Wanda occupied when I break free."

He didn't wait for a response before commanding Friday to initiate the flash of light followed closely by the sound cannon that temporarily disabled Wanda and freed them both from her grasp.

He shot into the trees, headed straight for Natasha. She was already halfway up the flag tree so he grabbed her around the waist, cleanly pulling her away from the flag. He wasn't slowing down as cleanly, however, and holding her made him less maneuverable and they were headed straight for a very large tree.

Dropping Natasha from that height wasn't an option; the result would be broken bones at minimum. He managed to rotate so he was curled protectively around her just in time to run into the tree.

The impact drove all the air from his lungs and he could feel the armor buckling. For a dizzying second he thought they hit the tree hard enough that he was embedded in the trunk, but that was just Friday taking over navigation and keeping them steady while the suit slowly righted itself and descended to the ground.

Natasha pulled herself free and leapt away before he landed, which was just as well. He staggered when his boots hit the earth and he fell to his hands and knees.

"Stark? Tony? Are you all right?" she demanded.

There was chattering on the comm but he couldn't listen to multiple things at once and try to breathe at the same time. His helmet folded back and he glanced up at her. "I'll be fine," he said dismissively, gulping air between words. "You?"

"Not a scratch. I appreciate your quick thinking."

"Not quick enough or we wouldn't have hit at all," he said, sitting back on his heels and wincing at the hot pain engulfing his back. He would have bruises for sure.

"Should I signal to end the game?" she asked, watching him with a vaguely concerned expression.

"No, it's just bruises." He finally gave half an ear to what his teammates were saying. "Besides, we're about to win."

"Can you stand?"

"Why do people keep asking me that?" he grumbled, carefully forcing himself into motion and standing up. As he moved, he could feel the interior of the armor shifting and moving in unnatural ways though the outside did not look horribly mangled. 

Flying didn't hurt as much as walking, so he flew himself back to the compound ahead of everyone else. Natasha promised let the others know what happened.

He felt like a fool. Studying the damage to the suit once he'd gotten it off made it infinitely worse.

 

The crumpling to the back panels was expected, given what happened. The failure of some of the joints of the interlocking structure in front was what made the suit shift and move oddly after impact. Those joints would not have failed if they hadn't been under unusual stress at the time of impact.

In other words, the suit had strained to contain him and finally failed when he hit the tree. 

He was mortified.

Still reeling from embarrassment and shame, he joined the rest of the team to go over what happened. The sting to his pride was almost more painful than the bruising to his back, and that ached and groaned with every move he made despite the handful of painkillers he'd swallowed as soon as he got indoors.

Natasha gave him a tub of muscle rub that she said would help. "If you need help putting it on or want a massage, just ask."

There was no way in hell he was going to ask.

His curiosity overcame his self-loathing while he undressed for a bath, and he looked at the developing bruises on his back in the mirror. While he held his shirt against the front of his body, he felt a few areas of soreness, so he looked down at those, too. It was the first time he'd looked at himself properly in some time and he didn't like the softness or the girth that he saw.

It could have been much worse, but that didn't mean anything. It was already bad enough and if he kept going the way he'd been going, it would only get worse.

Soaking in a hot bath helped his aches only so long as he didn't move. Still, it was worth the attempt even though much of the time in the water was spent fending off the persistent thought that letting himself submerge would solve the problem of his body and, by extension, the armor.

Eventually he was successful at convincing his mind that he was not going to drown himself. The feeling of itching hunger returned.

This had to stop.

Surely he was strong enough to make it stop.


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks to the aches in his back, he moved slowly enough in taking his bath and getting dressed that dinner was being prepared by the time he returned to the common areas. He slipped into the kitchen to make some coffee and, in trying to stay out of Steve's way, ended up by the snack cupboard. The door was open and he found himself transfixed in front of it, staring at the things he could so easily slip into the large front pocket of his hoodie.

And yet.

He could do it, but the larger part of him didn't want to. Yes, a certain section of his mind clamored for him to take and hoard and eat, but the rest of him remembered what happened with the suit and how it felt to look down and not see his dick because his gut was in the way.

"Tony, could you pass me the crackers while you're there?" Steve asked from behind him.

He did, then hesitated again. "Do you need anything else from in here?"

"No, that's it."

He limited himself to two granola bars, which he shoved quickly into his pocket, then closed the door firmly and took himself and his coffee away from temptation. For the time being.

Dinner was its own dilemma; the hungry hollow had never been an issue at a communal meal before. He knew he was actually physically hungry because his stomach was growling, but at the same time he knew he would eat far more than he should if he wasn't careful. He felt comfortable in taking more than his usual share, however, since there were others were doing the same.

He started out eating at the usual desperate pace, but then Clint made a comment about inhaling his food and he made a conscious effort to mimic the speed at which everyone else was eating. As always, they were chatting over the meal, which made their rate of consumption seem far too sedate.

He considered getting up for thirds, but Steve didn't so he knew he'd probably had as much as he should eat in front of the others. The hunger continued unabated.

He had more dessert than was probably wise. The hunger continued unabated.

After dinner Sam suggested they all play cards.

He was able to focus on his cards and not the hunger until someone brought out chips and salsa for a snack. He ate some--more than he normally would have, with how much he ate at dinner--then, with a supreme act of will, excused himself from the table and went to join those not playing the game.

He sat at the opposite end of the couch from Steve, shifting awkwardly until he figured out he could sit sideways and curl over a large pillow in his lap so he wasn't leaning against his sore back. For a while he considered going to his workshop instead of hanging around, but that would require moving and, if he waited long enough, he might have an opportunity to satisfy the hollow after everyone else went to bed.

So he listened and started to relax, finding the company of his erstwhile teammates wasn't as awkward as he'd feared despite what had happened between them. Rifts remained and certain topics weren't brought up, but it could have been much worse. He'd expected worse, and had avoided spending too much time in their company as a result. It appeared he'd been wrong.

It was comfortable, almost comforting, and he closed his eyes, the cadences of the conversation passing over him like a wave.

 

There was something warm and gently heavy on his back and the room was nearly silent.

"Tony?" Steve said softly, shaking his shoulder slightly.

"What time is it?" he murmured, reluctant to move.

"After eleven. Everyone else has gone to bed."

"You could have let me sleep here."

"You'll be much more comfortable in your bed."

"But I have to move to get there," he said on a sigh, slowly shifting his legs over the edge of the couch in preparation to stand. "This is coming with me," he added, shaking a corner of the electric blanket that someone had draped over his shoulders.

"You'll need this, then," Steve said, bending to unplug it from the wall and handing him the cord. "Need a hand up?"

He could probably manage without it, but . . . "Sure, why not." And oh, was he stiff, but the heat definitely helped.

Steve walked with him to the stairs and matched his gait as he slowly climbed, wearing the blanket like a cape.

"I wonder if Thor has ever thought to put heating elements in his cape. It would be quite nice in the winter."

Steve laughed. "You'll have to suggest it when we see him next. You know, if you still had the reactor, you wouldn't have to worry about being near a wall outlet."

"I'm sure it's possible to develop a battery for one of these things. I should look into that. There are lots of possible uses for a self-contained electric blanket."

They stopped outside his room. "If you need anything, you know where to find me." Steve sounded entirely too earnest.

"Yes, mother," he said sarcastically, sweeping into his room and closing the door firmly. He plugged the blanket into an outlet by the bed, then carefully climbed on and wrapped himself in the blanket. He wasn't sure he could sleep again yet, but he might as well try.

 

When he woke again, he was sweating, in pain, and hungry. He flung the blanket to the floor and forced himself upright so he could pull off his hoodie as well. Something thunked as he dropped it to the floor and suddenly he remembered the granola bars and his earlier hunger.

How could he have forgotten?

More importantly, how could he do it again?

He moved off the bed and toward the granola bars without thinking; once his mind caught up, he stopped and redirected his steps to the bathroom for some water. He needed to take more painkillers way more than he needed to eat anything.

After changing his damp t-shirt, he left the hoodie where it had fallen and retreated to his workshop. Sleep wasn't going to happen with the hollow place coaxing him to fill it, but working on the suit might prove sufficiently distracting from the yearning to eat.

It didn't prove much of a distraction, but it did prove to be a deterrent. He quickly realized that merely repairing the suit would be pointless if his circumference remained the same--or grew, but he suppressed that thought with a shudder--which meant he either needed to make the suit a little bigger or lose weight.

Losing weight was preferable but unlikely to work until he could get the whole overeating thing under control, and he wasn't having any luck with control so far. Plus he might need a working suit in the meantime. Then again, with the psych evals, it was possible he'd be officially benched so it wouldn't matter.

His choice for now, though, was to not have a suit or design a larger one.

Not having a suit wasn't an option, so it would have to be a larger one, as much as he hated the idea.

He argued with Friday over how much to add to the waist measurement. He insisted that his current measurements were sufficient as the maximum while she recommended adding another inch and a half to allow for "unforeseen developments," as she put it.

"I'll wear a corset if I have to, I'm not making it any bigger," he said heatedly. He didn't want to look at the numbers in the corner of the screen that indicated his current dimensions. He definitely didn't want to think about another inch and a half on top of that, not when he was already nearly thirty pounds above his previous average weight.

Friday highlighted the areas of failure on the current suit once again. He added a half inch.

Adding the extra room around the middle completely ruined the aesthetics, so his next task was recontouring the external plates. His suit looked more like Rhodey's by the time he was done, but that would be all right.

When he was as happy with it as he could be, considering the circumstances, he had Friday start the production cycle.

The entire process had been depressing beyond belief, but what frustrated him the most was that the hungry hollow continued itching around in his head despite confronting the consequences of his eating problem. How could he want to stuff himself after that?

And yet part of him still wanted it, yearned for it, craved it.

This had to stop.

"Friday, when Rogers wakes up, tell him that I want to talk to him."

"Would you like me to wake him now, boss?"

"Absolutely not." He could do this. He had to.

He disinterestedly poked at a few other projects, but the hollow didn't let him focus long enough to get anything accomplished.

He thought about going for a swim--an actual swim this time--but taking a moment to stretch in his chair reminded him that his back would not welcome all that movement. And Rogers would be upset if he found him in the pool again.

He should try to get back to his routine of crunches and other toning exercises, since that would only help the waistline issue. Exercise had been pushed aside in dealing with the bureaucratic bullshit after the Accords and everything, and obviously he shouldn't have let it slide. But, again, his back would not appreciate it at the moment.

He was too restless and too distracted to sleep and it would be at least two hours yet before anyone else was up. He started to pace the workshop, then decided he could do better on the treadmill. Bare feet weren't ideal, but fetching shoes would take him in range of those granola bars and once he started he wasn't sure he could stop, recalcitrant computer programs be damned.

He spent over an hour plodding on the treadmill, thinking the entire time about how to get into the kitchen in spite of Friday. The easiest way to gain entry would be to dismantle the door hinges, provided the hinge pin was on his side of the door, but he'd still have to deal with Friday alerting Rogers that he'd done so. With all of the backups and redundancies, taking Friday offline, even temporarily, was easier said than done.

A bit of code might do it, though. All he really had to do was countermand Rogers' instructions. The only question was whether Friday would let him.

He composed and checked over the code in his head before he finished on the treadmill. As he headed back to the workshop, he asked, "Friday, when was the last time we did a thorough diagnostic scan on you?"

"Seven weeks, four days, boss."

"I thought I told you to remind me every six weeks." That was a lie, he'd said eight, but the moment of silent confusion while Friday checked the records was a priceless distraction.

He quickly typed up the code and was ready by the time she played back his original request.

"All right, that's my bad. But let's go ahead and do that now while I'm thinking of it, yeah? I'm adding a couple of extra commands, just to cover our bases."

Friday ingested the code without comment. "Diagnostic scan will be complete in twenty minutes, boss."

That was his window. He headed for the elevator.

Of course, the hinges on the doors were inside so he couldn't mess with them, and there was some sort of actual, mechanical lock because the door did not budge despite Friday's distraction. He couldn't figure out how it locked, or he would have tried to pick the lock.

Thwarted again. As he headed for the stairs to try the door on the lower floor, he realized he should have planned to leave the compound while Friday was otherwise occupied rather than focus his efforts on their kitchen. He was really slipping.

In his frustration, he hit the handicap button for the doors to the main room--one of several accommodations he'd added after Rhodey's injury since Rhodey preferred not to wear the leg braces all of the time--and the door slowly opened.

He stared in disbelief for a moment, then scuttled through as the door began to close again.

Naturally, he went straight to the kitchen area. After that, he wasn't so sure. He had been so focused on getting in that he hadn't thought about what he might be able to find or where.

Someone left an almost half-empty family size package of mint flavored sandwich cookies on the counter. He didn't remember seeing them after dinner; they must have had some after he fell asleep on the couch.

He ate them two at a time, the cookie parts caking in his teeth while the filling left a sugary coating on his tongue and down his throat. They tasted heavenly.

It was a matter of minutes before the package was empty. His internal peanut gallery ridiculed him for being utterly revolting, but the hollow sang in pleasure, drowning out everything else.

With the edge of the hunger blunted, he stood in front of the refrigerator with both doors open, surveying his options. There was some cheesecake that looked enticing, but whoever had eaten the first couple of pieces would probably notice if the rest vanished unannounced. The ice cream, however, was plentiful and in numerous flavors so a carton was unlikely to be missed.

There was one that involved chocolate and mint and thus seemed a nice complement to the cookies. It, too, was almost half gone, but that just left room for him to squirt in a generous amount of chocolate sauce and whipped cream.

He had just eaten his second spoonful when Steve opened the door into the room and he wished he'd followed his instinct to sit on the floor against the cupboards so no one could see him.

There was no going back now.

He took another spoonful and watched Rogers approach him slowly. "Don't look at me like that. I earned this," he said when Rogers was close enough to see what he was eating.

"I'm sure you did," Rogers said too amiably as he sat on a stool on the other side of the counter.

"Did Friday wake you?"

"She did. She also said you wanted to talk to me."

He had to swallow before he could answer. "Yeah," he admitted, looking down at his ice cream and realizing he'd cleaned out half of it already. His stomach churned uncomfortably. "You're right. I need to talk to someone about this. When are those evals happening?"

Rogers was silent long enough that he looked up to make sure he wasn't being laughed at. Instead, Rogers was looking at him with an expression that might almost be called pity. "I was going to talk to everyone about that today."

He nodded, again staring at his ice cream as he stabbed at it with the spoon. The sugary mess no longer looked appetizing in the least, but he lifted another spoonful to his mouth automatically.

"Would you like me to take that away from you?" Rogers asked gently.

Tony swallowed thickly and pushed the carton slightly in Steve's direction. The hollow had folded in on itself and stewed in a slough of self-loathing and disgust that seeped into every corner of his mind.

Steve made the carton disappear and dropped the spoon into the sink, then took him by the elbow and steered him out of the room. It was still early enough that no one else was awake to witness him in this walk of shame.

"How long have you been awake?"

"Um, four hours? I think?" Unsurprisingly, Steve was directing him back toward his bedroom.

"Why did it take so long for Friday to wake me?"

"I told her not to. Also there wasn't anything to wake you about. I was behaving."

"Until ten minutes ago?" Steve sounded slightly skeptical.

He sighed and his shoulders slumped. "I wasn't strong enough to outlast it," he said glumly.

"But you tried. That means a lot, Tony."

He hesitated outside his bedroom door, then went in and shoved the hoodie toward Steve. "In the pocket. Get them away from me."

Steve removed the granola bars, his eyebrows rising, and dropped them on the floor outside the door. "I'll take them when I leave. Do you think you can sleep or should I stay and keep you company?"

He sank carefully onto the edge of his bed, looking at his feet rather than at Steve. "You don't need to stay. I'm wasting too much of your time as it is."

"It's never a waste."

"You'll think so eventually. Everyone always does. I don't even know why I'm trusting you with all of this in the first place. It's not like we're the best of friends."

"Maybe it's because you know I can kick your ass and sometimes that's what you need?" Steve's voice had a hint of teasing in it.

He snorted. "Maybe."

"Go to sleep, Tony. You look exhausted. Come down for lunch, and I'll let everyone know what's happening with the evaluations. Deal?"

He nodded and glanced up at Steve. "Aye aye, cap'n," he said wryly.


	5. Chapter 5

The update on the psych evals started with Steve apologizing for the delay. S.H.I.E.L.D. had their own team of psychologists on payroll for such tasks, but their Avengers organization did not, so the doctors involved in the evaluations needed to be thoroughly vetted. There were four doctors who had been cleared thus far and they had been booked for the next week and a half for the evals.

"To keep this place more secure, the recommendation is for us to go to New York and meet with them at the tower. Tony, any comments on that?"

He shrugged. "It's convenient and we'll control the security. I like it."

Steve nodded. "Good. Since there are four doctors and eight of us, I suggest we go to the city in shifts. I'll go in the first group and, unless there are objections, I'll also take those who were on my team for capture the flag."

He met Steve's glance with a slight nod. The suggestion was sound for a whole host of reasons: Steve, as the originator of this idea, was among the first to comply; Tony would be able to talk to someone sooner but without asking for that in front of everyone else; and, he wasn't sure if Steve thought about this or not, Steve would be there to keep him from doing anything else stupid before he could get help.

"Sure, that'll work," Clint said dismissively. "Is anyone willing to bet on how many of us are told we need therapy?"

"No bet," Rhodey said immediately. "They'll think we all need therapy of one kind or another. The question is how many will be ruled unfit for duty without therapy."

"I'll say two," Sam said, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms.

"Four," Natasha said confidently.

"You really think they'd sideline half the team?" Clint asked, sounding doubtful.

"There's no reason they can't," Rhodey said.

Steve raised a hand to quiet the chatter. "For those in the first round, pack for several days away. We'll fly to the city after dinner."

The team began to disperse, a few still speculating on the results of the evals. "Shall we up the stakes and name names?" Clint asked Natasha and Sam as they headed for the door.

Tony knew he needed therapy, but whether they'd bench him on that account remained to be seen. It's not like he was homicidal or even suicidal. Most of the time.

He had trouble figuring out what to pack both because he wasn't sure what sort of attire was typically expected for these things and because there was now a significant chunk of his wardrobe that didn't fit well enough to feel appropriate.

Anything button-up didn't have a chance; either there were gaps between the buttons or the shirts just didn't sit right, having been tailored to his former physique. His nice suits were definitely out, even the looser one that he'd wear to parties he knew had good food, and that memory made him think perhaps this eating-too-much-sometimes thing wasn't completely new, it was just that the frequency had dramatically increased. It was a sobering thought.

Finally he threw a handful of t-shirts and his other pair of jeans into the bottom of a garment bag and stuck a couple of jackets in the top. The jackets could hide the lumps where the t-shirts clung a little too much. And these were his larger t-shirts, sadly; some of his smaller ones made him feel like a beached whale and he probably looked it, too. So embarrassing.

Once he was packed, he put on his tennis shoes and hit the treadmill again, just to get some sort of exercise in. His back ached if he breathed too deeply and it hurt to move his right arm much, so walking was about all he could do. But he could do it, and he did.

He kept to himself during the flight to the tower. He'd volunteered to fly the quinjet, so he had an excuse to only listen to the meandering conversation occurring behind him. He was feeling anxious to the point of nausea about the entire affair, but he needed to do this.

He didn't want to think about what would happen if he didn't.

 

The thirteen hours between their arrival in New York and his appointment time were some of the longest of his life. His anxiety about the evaluation only increased, especially once the others went to bed, and by morning he had almost convinced himself that his was a hopeless case, he was too messed up from all that had happened to him and there was nothing that could be done.

Then he sat down across from a friendly-looking man with greying blond hair, a pair of those rimless glasses, and a goatee that closely resembled his own. After a firm handshake, the man introduced himself as Dr. Dan and briefly explained what their discussion would involve. His voice was reassuring but firm, and he was much easier to talk to than Tony had expected.

The conversation covered a lot of ground before the moment came that he had to confess what had been going on. Saying the words wasn't as difficult as he feared, not with the easy way Dr. Dan had been chatting with him and the intent manner he had when listening. A nod and a scribbled note were the only immediate reactions that his confession garnered, and after a few questions about how long it had been going on, how frequently, and to what extent it upset him, the topic of conversation changed.

He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. They broke for lunch soon afterward, so he thought about what sort of reaction he had been expecting--or hoping for?--and tried to figure out why he almost felt disappointed. He didn't brood for long, though, not with all of the others and their psychologists also at the table. Sam and Clint made dirty jokes in an attempt to get a reaction from one of the doctors, while Steve leaned over and asked him how it was going.

It took a little while to fall back into the comfortable chatter when he and Dr. Dan were once again sequestered in a corner of one of his labs. This time, the good doctor spent a little more time interrogating him about some of the things that had happened over the years, how he'd reacted, and how he felt about those things now.

He quickly grew physically and mentally tired from that line of inquiry, but he answered as well as he could and after a while his questioner seemed satisfied. Eventually, Dr. Dan took a deep breath and rummaged through his well worn leather satchel.

He handed Tony a business card. "I'm referring you to Dr. Jones for therapy for the eating disorder. I know your people will probably want to vet her, but she'll pass with flying colors. If you can get in to see her while you're still in town, that would be best. In fact, I'll give her a call tonight and let her know to expect your request for an urgent consultation."

The words urgent and eating disorder stuck like burrs. "Are you going to bench me?"

"Temporarily, yes, I think so. Getting started with Dr. Jones will be easiest if you have some dedicated time to work with her. But if you'd prefer that I don't, I will consider your request when I write up my report."

He didn't have to consider for long. "It might be better if you did."

"I will, then. Do you have any last questions for me?"

"Would you want to work for the Avengers officially in this capacity?" If doing these evals was going to be a regular thing, they needed to have some doctors available at a moment's notice.

Dr. Dan laughed. "Can you truly make that offer officially without talking to anyone else?"

"I pay for everything, remember?" he replied with a shrug. "The job is yours if you want it. You know how to find me."

Dr. Dan shook his hand again and stood. "Thank you, I will consider it after I've written your report."

He sat and stared at the cream-colored business card long after Dr. Dan had seen himself out. Nowhere on the innocuous card did it say anything about eating disorders, probably for reasons of client privacy, but the words still resonated in his mind. It seemed strange to connect that phrase to himself, but at the same time it was a relief to have a name for what troubled him.

He didn't just have a problem with food, he had an eating disorder. Somehow, saying it like that changed how he viewed his problem, how he viewed himself. His problem wasn't unique and there were experts who could probably, hopefully, help. It was a comforting thought.

 

He waited to call the number on the business card until he was alone in his bedroom that night. After a brief but frustrating conversation trying to explain his situation to a woman who must have been some sort of receptionist for the clinic, he left his first name and phone number and more or less gave up on the endeavor. Dr. Jones herself called him back within a quarter hour to apologize for the misunderstanding and arrange an appointment with him at the tower the following day. She also sent him some forms to fill out and two questionnaires to answer before the appointment.

He let Friday handle the forms, which were the usual doctor stuff, while he tackled the deceptively short questionnaires. They were uncomfortably revealing despite the brevity, so he finished as quickly as he could and tried not to think about what Dr. Jones was going to think of his answers. She had told him they were merely to help direct the conversation, but it was hard not to feel like he was being judged.

And that made the hollow scratch for attention, and there was no way in hell he was going to indulge the hungry itch the night before he was finally getting help, even if he had to go camp out in Steve's bedroom to stop it.

It was a rough night, but he'd had worse; the anxiety over talking to another doctor about his problem fortunately overcame the hollow's neediness. That is, if being plagued by anxious dreams to the point of nightmares can be called fortunate.

A long, hot shower in the morning and a large cup of coffee helped make up for the lack of sleep. He'd just finished making a second cup of coffee when he was notified that Dr. Jones had arrived.

He made it to the lab just before she did.

"Hello, Tony, I'm Dr. Jones," she said cheerfully, offering her hand.

He shook it, uncertain what to say. "Hi," he said finally, then remembered he needed to point her to where they were going. She strode over to the table, her heels clacking on the hard floor, pulling a crate on wheels behind her.

While she set up on her side of the table, he sat on the opposite side, studying her while he sipped his coffee. To be honest, he wasn't sure what to make of a bald, black, heavyset psychologist with expertise in eating disorders.

She folded her hands on the table, stared at him through her large-lensed colorful glasses (that coordinated with the pink shrug she wore over a black dress), and said, "Go on and say it. I can tell you want to."

He had a couple of things he could say, and all of them were things he knew he'd get in trouble for if he said them. Still, she invited it . . . "You're overweight," he said finally.

"So are you," she said evenly. "Anything else?"

He glanced at her head. His long association with Rhodey had taught him to never comment on a black woman's hair. "Nope."

"Really, just one? Most new clients have several questions about my appearance."

He didn't rise to the bait.

"All right. Let's get this out of the way: I'm a cancer survivor and my hair never grew back. I am a curvy black woman and not ashamed of it. Weight is just a number and does not indicate anything about your value as a person, nor is it a particularly good indicator of health." She had a gentle lilt to her voice that was more apparent in person than it had been over the phone.

And she was still talking. "Our time today is to establish what you need and how we might be able to meet that need. I have reviewed the questionnaires from last night, and I'd like you to tell me what your biggest concerns are right now."

She had a very different listening manner than Dr. Dan, but somehow Tony felt just as comfortable with her, at least in part because she asked him probing questions about his binges without making a big deal of it. It was obvious she dealt with these sorts of things regularly and that was reassuring.

It didn't make the conversation any easier, however, as she pressed him to talk about things he preferred not to admit even to himself. Especially since the conversation lasted for the better part of four hours.

"While it would be my preference to start with inpatient care, I understand why that isn't an option for you," Dr. Jones said at last. "Fortunately, you are sufficiently motivated that an outpatient course of treatment should work well."

She said a few more things, but his attention was slipping. He felt emotionally drained from their discussion and also it was lunch time and he was getting hungry. But not itchy hungry, just normal hungry.

She sent him a bunch of stuff to read before they met again the next morning. He invited her to stay for lunch, but she declined due to an appointment with a different client. 

There was no one else in the kitchen area when he arrived, but there were signs that at least one other person had already eaten. He followed their lead and made a sandwich, filching some of the carrot sticks from the container in the fridge and snagging a banana from the counter fruit bowl as well.

As he sat down to eat, he remembered her parting words of advice to start paying attention to what he ate as he ate it and how it made him feel. He felt a little foolish, staring at his plate before eating anything, but if it would help . . . 

 

Tony was lounged carefully on a couch, reading about himself--at least that's what it felt like as he read descriptions of his disorder--when Barton wandered in. "What'cha doing?" he asked in a slightly obnoxious tone. He was probably bored.

"Reading," he said shortly.

"You do that?" Barton asked as if he was surprised. He slouched into a chair within Tony's range of sight.

"When I have to."

"Why do you have to?"

Why wouldn't he go away? "It's . . . homework." He regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. He could've said it was paperwork. Paperwork wasn't likely to elicit more questions.

"Who would give Tony Stark homework?"

Tony let his tablet fall face down onto his chest and leveled a glare at Barton. "My therapist."

"Ooh, you got stuck with one? I managed to avoid that. Are you delusional?"

He was following Barton's train of thought until the last question. "What?"

"Do you need a therapist because you're delusional?" He said it slowly as if Tony was mentally challenged.

"No. Where the hell did you get that?"

"A while back Cap told us not to mention your weight in front of you. I figured you were delusional or something and hadn't realized you'd gotten . . . paunchy."

He took a deep breath and rubbed his face with his hand. "I am well aware of that, thanks," he said bleakly.

"Are you suicidal, then?"

"Only sometimes," he muttered under his breath. Louder, he said, "Why would you think so?"

"Cap has us monitoring you almost constantly. Some of us thought it might be a suicide watch, but we weren't crass enough to ask you directly."

"And here you are asking me," he said bitingly as he carefully sat up, his back aching in protest.

"So what's the deal with the weight? You still have a fantastic ass, by the way."

He stared at Barton for a few long seconds. "Since when do you pay attention to my ass?"

Barton smirked. "You're dodging the question."

"What makes you think I'm going to tell you anything?" He had already said way too much.

Any trace of humor and teasing fell away and Barton sat forward on the edge of his seat. "I'm pretty good with secrets," he said, shrugging. "And sometimes it helps when one or two people share the secrets, like how Nat knew about Laura and the kids."

Tony was unmoved, though he had long been impressed at how Barton managed to pull off the secret family thing.

"All right, don't tell me. Do you think they'll bench you for it, though?"

That part was going to be general knowledge amongst the team soon enough . . . "Yeah," he admitted.

Barton looked down for a minute as if debating what to say. Then, instead of speaking, he rose from his chair and sat next to him on the couch, close enough to brush shoulders.

He hadn't sat that close to anyone in some time and he reflexively moved his arm between their bodies so Barton wouldn't be able to feel his lumps. He half expected Barton to try to grab his tablet to look at what he'd been reading but he didn't.

"If there's anything we can do to help get you back in business, just say so," Barton said quietly.

"How about not bothering me when I'm doing my homework?" He tried to sound teasing, but it came out flat and resigned.

"How much are you going to have to do?"

"After today? I don't know. For now I'm just reading about what's wrong with me so I can ask questions tomorrow."

"Do you have any yet?" Barton sounded curious.

"Which came first, the chicken or the egg?"

"When you have both a chicken and an egg, does it matter which came first?"

Barton had a point. "Thanks for that, professor," he said wryly. "When did you get all philosophical?"

"I have hidden depths," Barton said lightly. "And I've had experience with a messed up mind."

"That was a little different," he protested.

"Yeah, and there was nothing to read about what happened. I just had to spend a while wondering if each thought was actually my own."

"But there also wasn't anything you could have done to stop it. This stuff . . . people think we're stronger than this, or at least we should be. Superheroes don't get sidelined by their minds. Or real ones don't. The people who say I'm not a hero are probably right." The words just tumbled out and once again he wished he could take them back.

Barton leaned into him and the silence stretched into distinctly uncomfortable territory.

When Barton finally spoke, he said softly, "You're depressed."

He sighed deeply. Barton was already half right, so he might as well . . . "Apparently. It's the cherry on top of the eating disorder sundae."

A pause. "This might sound cruel, but I didn't realize you could gain weight with an eating disorder."

"See for yourself," he said, turning his tablet back on and making sure the correct document was displayed before handing it to Barton. He watched him read out of the corner of his eye, but Barton didn't visibly react.

"So what you're telling me is I shouldn't challenge you to a hotdog eating contest," he said as he handed back the tablet. "I guess that explains where the Twinkies went."

"I didn't eat your Twinkies," Tony protested hotly. "They're disgusting."

"And you have standards even when you're bingeing?" Barton teased.

"Yes," he said confidently. At least, that's what he'd like to think. "Blame Rogers. He cleaned out a bunch of stuff after he found out what was going on."

"What am I being blamed for?" Steve asked as he took a seat on the chair Barton had occupied.

"Making the junk food disappear," Tony replied.

"Did you eat the Twinkies or just hide them? If you hid them, they'll still be good," Barton said eagerly.

"I threw it all away," Steve said sheepishly.

"What a terrible waste."

"You can just make him buy you a new box, it's not like they're expensive," Tony said dismissively.

"I don't know what they are," Steve admitted.

"Gross," Tony said immediately.

"That's blasphemy," Barton chided, then proceeded to explain the marvel that is the Twinkie.

Tony rolled his eyes and went back to his reading, ignoring Barton's chatter in his ear. Somehow he felt at ease in their company despite--or because of?--their knowledge of his little problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The questionnaires Dr. Jones had Tony answer:  
> http://www.ori.org/files/Static%20Page%20Files/EDDSDSM-5_10_14.pdf  
> http://www.hr.ucdavis.edu/asap/pdf_files/Beck_Depression_Inventory.pdf
> 
> Sample self-help manuals that provided inspiration for the materials Tony has to read/engage with from this point forward.  
> https://www.div12.org/wp-content/uploads/2015/04/Mitchell-CBT-for-BED-Self-Help-Manual.pdf  
> http://www.bodywhys.ie/m/uploads/BEDBookletUpload.pdf


	6. Chapter 6

His biggest concern when meeting Dr. Jones for the second time was that therapy might not result in weight loss, as stated in the materials she'd had him read. "I can't stay like this," he insisted.

"Why?" she asked, folding her hands on the table. "Does your current size hinder your daily activities in some way?"

"It's . . . uncomfortable. I wasn't able to fight the way I used to."

"Is that due to your weight or your failure to exercise the way you did formerly?"

Stung, he looked down at his hands. "Both, I think."

"The primary focus of our work needs to be correcting your eating habits. If those don't change, you will never be able to lose weight, honey."

He sighed. "I know."

"You are welcome to resume a reasonable exercise regimen, but you need to be doing it for the right reasons. Exercising until you drop to make up for overindulgence isn't what we're going for."

It made sense. He reluctantly agreed.

Dr. Jones took the opportunity to discuss keeping a daily food log, which he'd suspected was coming from the stuff she'd had him read. She also recommended that he log his physical activity so he wouldn't be tempted to go overboard.

That, too, made sense. The caveat that he had to log these things himself rather than just having Friday keep track for him was annoying, but he could handle it. So far, so good.

Then she wanted to have him do a physical and get weighed and everything.

He refused.

She offered to conduct the examination herself, then go with him to the medical floor to have his blood drawn. "It's been over a year since you've had a checkup, Tony, and we need to make sure there isn't anything physical going on and contributing to your weight gain."

"Fine," he said reluctantly.

She suggested they move somewhere warmer so he would be more comfortable. They ended up on his floor of the tower in the space Pepper had used as an office when she needed to get things done.

Dr. Jones let him keep his clothes on for most of the affair. When she had him bare his torso, he shivered even though he wasn't cold. Her fingers were warm when she lightly touched the bruising on his back. "Did you have an x-ray after this happened?"

"No."

"It's possible you fractured something."

He shrugged, his attention no longer on how self-conscious he felt. "It's not like they can do anything if I did."

"Please be careful when you exercise," she said mildly. "A punctured lung would require other people to see you naked, you know."

He'd not thought of that. He shuddered a little at the idea.

Dr. Jones was businesslike for the rest of the exam, then sat at the desk to make a few notes while he put his clothes back on. He waited awkwardly behind her, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. She turned around and asked bluntly, "Do you own any clothes that fit?"

"I own a lot of clothes," he said evasively.

"I'll take that as a no." She packed her paperwork into the rolling crate next to the scale she'd made him step on (he'd refused to look at the number). She stood and faced him, her hands on her hips. "We're going shopping."

"What? Why?"

"You'll feel more comfortable in your own skin with clothes that fit you properly."

"I don't-- I can't--" he stuttered.

"Don't even try to tell me you can't afford to."

"Of course I can afford it," he said, bristling. "I just don't want to."

"Why?"

He hadn't gone so far as to examine his instinctive resistance to buying more clothes. "I don't know," he said after a moment of silence.

"Come up with a good reason, and maybe I'll listen. Until then, we're going."

On their way down the tower, she reminded him to stop in to have his blood drawn. He'd hoped she'd forgotten, but at least that didn't require getting undressed.

He didn't speak until they were back in the elevator. "I'll drive. If you don't mind."

"I came in a cab, so that's quite all right by me," she said cheerfully.

She directed him to a large shopping mall in Jersey. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in a mall like a mundane person; normally, acquiring clothes involved telling his tailor what he wanted and it appeared as if by magic, no doubt courtesy of Pepper. The giant parking lots and the sprawling building were foreign and full of potential threats, to say nothing of the people teeming everywhere.

He parked the car and dubiously eyed the building through the window. "It feels like giving up," he said finally. "That's why I haven't bought bigger clothes."

"I can understand that, but dressing the body you have now doesn't mean you will remain this size for the rest of your life," Dr. Jones replied.

He knew that, but he didn't feel certain of it. He continued examining the mall that might even rival the Avengers compound in square footage.

"Don't worry, I know where to go. You're not the first person I've brought here," Dr. Jones said reassuringly as she opened her door.

He had no choice but to follow suit after donning a ball cap and a pair of his tinted glasses.

 

The entire process of finding and trying on clothes was tiresome, frustrating, and downright demoralizing. Nothing he saw seemed quite right for him--perhaps because he hoped to find things that resembled items he already owned so it wouldn't be as obvious that he'd gone out and bought a new wardrobe--and he found himself gravitating toward the sizes he should have been.

If Dr. Jones weren't with him, he would have given up after the first rack of clothing and stormed out without looking back. She was a calming presence in the maelstrom of emotion that he wasn't used to feeling, and she had a knack for picking out things that weren't too awful, once he was willing to try them on.

Dressing rooms and their mirrors were his new enemy, the harsh light and multiple angles doing absolutely nothing to help him feel better about the whole endeavor. Everything he tried on felt stiff and strange and nothing seemed to hang well on him.

After he disappeared into a dressing room and came out claiming that none of the dozen items would work, Dr. Jones insisted that he show her every item he tried on. Starting, of course, with those dozen items. In some cases she agreed with him. In others, she talked him into giving the shirt or pants a chance, arguing that they wouldn't feel so stiff after being washed.

Even with her encouragement, they went through two entire stores and came out with just a pair of jeans and a pair of shirts. And some new underwear. He questioned the underwear, but she looked at him with an eyebrow raised and said, "Trust me, you need it."

By then it was time for lunch, so they wandered over to the food court. His very first thought was how convenient such a layout would be when the hollow needed to be filled. He shook off that thought as soon as it came and focused on deciding what he wanted to eat. There was a dizzying array of choices, but he settled on fast food, specifically cheeseburgers.

His pair of cheeseburgers--and a beverage, but no sides thank you very much--reminded him of coming back from Afghanistan with the arc reactor and a new sense of what he could do with his life. Tony remembered the constant ache in his chest from the reactor and no longer feeling like he knew his own body, a feeling that was uncomfortably familiar. What he lacked now was purpose. He had no idea how to fix that.

The after-lunch attempts at shopping went marginally better than the before-lunch attempt, and eventually Dr. Jones declared that what they had was sufficient.

He dropped Dr. Jones off at her clinic, curiously peering at the tidy brick building. He wasn't curious enough to take her up on her offer of a tour, however, so he was back at the tower before the worst of the afternoon traffic.

He took his purchases straight to his room and removed all of the store tags and all of the sizing tags before stuffing everything into a small duffel he'd had in his closet. He'd wash it all when they got back to the compound, since the plan was to return early enough that the other half of the team could take the jet back to the city that night.

His clothes dealt with, he went down to check on the new armor and send it to the compound on its own. For a moment he considered hiding his new clothes into the armor so no one would know he had them, but that was silly. He was a grown man who could buy clothes whenever he liked.

 

The rest of the team was happy to see them when they appeared just in time for dinner. Tony picked at his food, eating only because he knew Dr. Jones would give him a disapproving look for already failing to uphold the meal frequency plan he'd agreed to. But seriously, three meals and two snacks every day? It was going to be way too much. And all he wanted was to do his laundry and go to bed. Anything else was more than he thought he could manage.

It was almost pathetic how tired he was after that little shopping trip.

In the chaos of the other half of the team leaving, he slipped away and hid in the laundry room, almost falling asleep to the rhythmic noises of the clothes tumbling in the dryer.

 

He was awake early (for him) on account of going to bed so early, so he hit the gym. Might as well get started on getting back into shape when there was no one around to notice how out of shape he'd gotten. The bruising on his back was still painful enough that he had to stop his efforts on the rowing machine after only five minutes, so he moved to the treadmill. He started at a jog but it felt ridiculous so he dialed it down to a brisk walk and kept it up for a whole forty-five minutes.

He was feeling good about himself after that and took a brief shower before donning some of the new clothes and heading downstairs for breakfast.

The rest of the day was just as satisfying and included working with Barton on some improvements to his gear and time spent in the weight room with the other three where he didn't embarrass himself horribly, though it helped that he could really only do leg work and his legs had been carrying around extra weight for a while now...

He ate moderately but well, and recorded everything in his log without shame. Perhaps this wasn't going to be as difficult as he'd thought.

After dinner he went down to his workshop to play around with some of the things he and Barton had come up with. He had no idea how much time had passed and was startled when there was a knock at the door.

Steve poked his head in. "Have you had anything since dinner?"

"No, why?"

"Mrs. Barton bought some of those caramel apples. You're welcome to join us if you'd like one."

He considered it a moment. He still needed a snack for the day--and both Steve and Barton knew it, since he'd told them what Dr. Jones was requiring of him--and a caramel apple didn't sound like a bad idea.

They all went to bed after that, and as Tony undressed he realized he'd not thought about his clothing once all day. Normally he was constantly bothered by it or adjusting it to hide the bulges that he hadn't had before, but the new clothes were definitely more comfortable. Dr. Jones was right.

She was probably also right about some of the other things. For once, he was perfectly happy to be wrong if it meant he could get back to something close to normal.


	7. Chapter 7

Rhodey and the rest of the team returned from New York after only two days away. Tony was a little anxious about being able to continue his new behaviors around everyone else, but nothing came of his worries. No one seemed to think it was weird that each meal ended with Steve telling everyone what time the next meal would be (so Tony could plan his snacks as needed), nor did anyone seem to notice that Tony was never alone in the kitchen or that he never ate anywhere but at the table.

Three days after the whole team was back at the compound, Steve called a meeting after breakfast.

"The results of the evaluations have come in," Steve said without preamble. "The only one who has read all of them is Agent Hill, and I asked her to tell me just the basics. You will be shown your own report and it will be your decision what to share with the team."

There were nods around the table.

"One person has been temporarily benched. Several others have been strongly advised to seek counseling and some have already started that process. I know who these individuals are, but I will not say anything more without permission."

Tony noticed some murmuring and glances around the table as a few of his teammates speculated who Steve was talking about. If he'd known he would be the only one sidelined . . . he could feel himself flush with embarrassment and his heart raced as he considered admitting it was him.

"Shouldn't the team know who isn't cleared?" Natasha asked.

"We haven't had many missions lately so it may not matter. We will be resuming team training soon and no one is exempt."

Tony could tell Steve was consciously not looking in his direction as he answered Nat's question, but he knew that wouldn't be the end of it. He spoke up and hoped his voice didn't betray his anxiety. "It's me, all right? I was benched. Happy now?"

Every head swiveled in his direction and he met their gazes defiantly.

"Tony, you didn't need to--" Steve started, then sighed and shook his head. "Tony, Rhodes, and Wanda, please stay here. Everyone else, you're dismissed."

When the rest of the team had cleared out, Steve looked at each of them. "I thought it might help for us to know who else is working with a therapist."

"Even you?" Wanda asked quietly.

"Even me," Steve confirmed.

"What is this, superhero support group?" Rhodey asked jokingly.

"If you want it to be," Steve said, entirely serious.

No one seemed willing to say anything just yet, so they dispersed after a few moments of awkward silence.

 

Tony's first virtual meeting with Dr. Jones went well. She seemed pleased by his account of the week, though she focused less on the logs than he might have expected (and he was proud of his logs, not a single slip-up to be seen) and more on how he was thinking and feeling about the whole process. Eventually her encouragement led him to admit that he feared stumbling, that he'd managed up to two weeks without a binge on his own in the past and he wasn't sure how long he could hold up against the hunger he felt itching at the edges of his consciousness.

"Take one day at a time, Tony," was Dr. Jones' parting wisdom. "Should the temptation become overwhelming, stop and evaluate why you are feeling that way. I have faith that you can do this."

And he tried. Oh, how he tried. But he was somewhat skeptical that feelings were at the bottom of the whole thing, and on the occasions that he tried to examine his feelings, he got distracted by other things or he was unable to draw any sort of conclusions. It was maddening.

At some point during that second week he began to figure out what else could mute the hollow hunger, at least temporarily. If he was sufficiently absorbed in something in his workshop, that would work, especially if it involved working with a teammate on their gear. Also fairly effective was exercise, if he was in the company of the others or if he had Friday play his music loudly enough.

So in this period of being "benched" he found himself more often in the company of the other Avengers than had been the case since before Ultron. Steve was as good as his word and resumed team training sessions; Tony was able to avoid making a complete fool of himself by offering to work with Rhodey on his modified exercises. Some training was done individually, to accommodate both the varied needs of the team and the scheduling of other activities, like therapy appointments.

Tony half expected someone to ask why he'd been benched, but no one did. At first he thought Barton might have quietly spread the word, but it didn't seem like anyone was treating him any differently than before, especially Rhodey, who probably would have given him some flak for telling Barton and not him. Why he resisted confessing everything to his oldest friend was a mystery to him; he would have to ask what Dr. Jones thought about it.

The only other conclusion he could draw about why no one seemed curious was that they all thought it was obvious why he needed help and possibly even that he should have gotten help a long time ago. Sometimes he distracted himself from thinking about food by deciding which psychiatric ailment each teammate thought he had (Natasha, for instance, would probably stand by her initial conclusion of narcissism).

But always, always, his thoughts circled back to food, to what he should eat the next time he was supposed to eat, to worrying that each bite would lead inevitably to uncontrollably stuffing his face no matter who was watching. He found himself relying almost exclusively on the presence of the others to keep himself in check at meals, though it helped that the itching hunger remained mostly quiet.

Dr. Jones assured him during their next video chat that what he was experiencing was perfectly normal and managing the thoughts and trying to decipher his feelings were part of the recovery process. She repeated her advice about taking one day at a time and cautioned him against relying on the team too much to distract him from the urge to eat.

"I know it's frustrating, but you need to learn to recognize what emotions and what events cause that hunger to become overwhelming. That's something you have to do or you'll just start feeding that impulse with something else, like alcohol," she warned. "But don't get me wrong," she added, "you have been doing very well. You can do this."

Tony wasn't sure whether he should feel rebuked or praised by the end of the call, which fit all too well with his state of mind.

He felt very good about his eating and his exercising over the last two weeks, and was even feeling a little better about looking at himself in the mirror (clothed, always clothed).

But two weeks was the longest he'd gone without overeating since that had become a problem and he could feel that hollow place yawning in the corners of his mind, unimpressed with his return to better habits.

Something had to give, and he wasn't sure what it would be.

 

Four days dragged by, each more difficult than the last. The itching, hollow hunger was growing steadily worse and, despite his best efforts, the only conclusion he could draw regarding the cause was his worsening anxiety about succumbing to the urge to binge. So he wanted to binge because he was afraid of bingeing. Of course.

Having everyone else around definitely helped, especially since Steve and Barton knew to keep an eye on him.

And then, without fanfare or warning, that support was ripped away.

The team was called out on a mission.

It had something to do with New York or D.C. or one of those usual targets, he wasn't really paying attention during the briefing. Instead, he sat there, stunned, as he realized he was actually going to be left behind. Steve still wanted him to participate by sorting through the intel while they were en route, but he wouldn't accompany them.

When everyone else dispersed to gear up and gather at the quinjet, Steve caught him as he tried to leave the room.

"Will you be all right here?" Steve asked quietly.

"No problem, I'll be fine," he said quickly. He knew Steve was only asking because he'd be left entirely alone in the Avengers quarters; Mrs. Barton and the kids had left the previous day to visit relatives.

Steve studied his face for a moment, then nodded. "Friday, lift the restriction on these floors for the duration of our absence."

"But--" he started.

"We don't know how long this will take and you'll have to eat something in the meantime."

It was eminently rational and exactly what he didn't need at that moment. "Right," he said, trying to keep his mind from dwelling on the contents of the refrigerator.

Steve followed everyone else down to the equipment lockers and Tony scurried down to his workshop to get as far as he could from the food. And also to use his multiple screens to monitor the goings-on.

Soon the quinjet was in the air and the comm was filled with discussion about who it was and what they wanted and for a while, he was completely absorbed. "I can confirm they look like HYDRA," he said, examining the images he pulled from one of his satellites. "Some have weapons that look like they came from Strucker."

"But what are they doing?" Steve asked.

He shrugged. "Nothing. They're holding the police at bay but they aren't making any offensive moves. It's like they're waiting for you to get the party started."

"I don't like the sound of that," Natasha commented.

"Well, that's all I've got. If something changes, I'll let you know." He made sure the video feed he was watching was being shared with the jet, but after that there wasn't much for him to do until the action started. He was already monitoring the news and social media for any insight and his satellites were sweeping the area for anything out of place.

Friday reminded him that it was time for a snack, but he dismissed her impatiently. 

The reminder about dinner came while the team was fighting the HYDRA goons that had abruptly turned up to menace civilians and there was no way he was going to leave his perch to find food at that moment. Especially not when a large ship appeared out of nowhere, scooped up the remaining HYDRA soldiers, and sped away.

"What just happened?" Steve demanded immediately.

"I swear to God, that ship wasn't there a minute ago," Tony sputtered indignantly. "It's headed east. I'm tracking it if you want to follow."

"If it has good enough stealth tech to just emerge like that, why aren't they using stealth to run?" Barton asked.

"Because we're supposed to follow it," Natasha said grimly.

From the background noise, they were back on the quinjet. Tony fed the flight path to the pilot's console and listened as they argued about what they might find at the end of the mysterious flight.

"Can we overtake it?" Rhodey asked in the midst of the hubbub. "If we shoot it from the sky, it won't matter if it's leading us into a trap."

Tony studied the limited data he'd managed to gather on the other ship. "It looks like it matches the quinjet for speed," he said finally. "You might be able to regain a little ground if you push it to the limit, but you won't overtake them."

"Any idea where they're headed?"

"Not really." He sent them the map and possible flight destinations Friday had projected based on the flight path thus far. Almost the entire Eastern Hemisphere was a possibility, though they were quickly approaching a point where the continent of Africa would no longer be in the running.

There wasn't much to say after that and eventually Steve advised everyone to try to get some sleep.

Friday used the opportunity to remind him that he needed to eat something, so he reluctantly backed away from the screens and ventured upstairs, his phone in hand to monitor things while he was on the move.

He wasn't particularly hungry, but he acknowledged the wisdom of eating something; he just didn't know what. Everything he could think of made his stomach roil in protest. Eventually he settled on toast with peanut butter and a glass of apple juice, consumed quickly at the table before heading back to his workshop to try to wring more information from the enigmatic ship.

 

It was after midnight when their quarry finally landed in Siberia. Tony ran every scan possible on the area around it, but found nothing remarkable, just some subterranean passages being used as a hideout, from the looks of it. He even tested out the scan he'd been developing to detect his own stealth tech and still found nothing of note.

He didn't like it, and neither did some of his teammates, but he had nothing else to offer.

They took a good hour to do brief reconnaissance of the area, even sending Vision to phase through the rock to get a sense of what awaited them.

To all appearances, it was a fairly small HYDRA outpost. Tony just hoped that the appearance wasn't deceiving.

Fortunately, it wasn't. HYDRA put up a fight but were no match for the Avengers, though it took a while for the skirmish to reach its end. Tony watched anxiously the entire time, wholeheartedly regretting his acquiescence to being benched. He should have been out there, too.

When things settled down a bit, he had Friday infiltrate the HYDRA computer system to collect all the data they could before they blew the place to kingdom come. Files began pouring in to his server dedicated to enemy documents and he sat back in his chair, exhausted. It was the wee hours of the morning and all he could think about was sleep. And food, but that was nothing new.

He was asleep shortly after the team reboarded the quinjet and blew up both the enemy ship and their cave, then began the long flight home.


	8. Chapter 8

_"You could have saved us. Why didn't you do more?"_

He jerked awake, heart pounding and drenched in sweat, and nearly fell off his chair. It was that nightmare again, where everyone was dead and it was all his fault for not doing enough. His worst fear and, in the case of the mission just completed, one that was all too possible. He should have been there, should have done more.

Never mind that this time they won; the image of dead Avengers arrayed all around him was too fresh in his mind. His stomach grumbled with hunger.

He hadn't even been asleep for two hours and it was still the wee hours of the morning, but he was famished. Skipping food earlier definitely hadn't been a good idea.

"Friday, did I miss anything?" he asked with a yawn as he gingerly stretched. He was getting too old to sleep on his keyboard.

"No, boss."

The stillness of the hallways and the emptiness of the main room were unsettling, especially after his nightmare. "Anybody up?" he said quietly into the comm, not wanting to wake them if they were getting some well-deserved rest.

"Hey, Tony," Rhodey responded. "Friday said you were sleeping."

"I was," he said, feeling some of his anxiety dissipate. "How'd the suit do?"

Rhodey gave him a rundown while he made himself a sandwich and a salad. It was a familiar sort of conversation and just what his frazzled nerves needed.

After a while the conversation petered out and Rhodey suggested he go to bed. "We're still hours out, and that's assuming nothing else happens," Rhodey said, and Tony could imagine the grimace on his face.

"We can hope," Tony said, loading his dishes into the dishwasher, then quickly leaving the room before he was tempted to eat anything else. "Are you stuck flying that thing the whole way?"

"Nah, Barton's relieving me in an hour."

"Drive safe."

"Sleep well."

The absence of the warm voice in his ear made the empty hallways seem spooky, and he had an irrational urge to tiptoe lest he awaken something malevolent. But no, the only thing he feared waking was within him, and no amount of treading lightly could keep that beast slumbering.

He felt absolutely, utterly alone.

The hollow yawned into life. The itching hunger flared up in response, consuming him from within.

 

Back in the workshop, he tried desperately to focus on finding the answer to Rhodey's idle comment that the fight had been too easy, it was almost like the HYDRA ship had been sent to draw them away from something else that was about to happen.

Visions of the food he'd seen in the kitchen danced in his mind's eye.

He shook his head roughly and began giving rapid-fire instructions to Friday about sorting and analyzing the data he'd stolen from the HYDRA outpost. As an afterthought, he also directed her to monitor the news media and the intelligence chatter to figure out what might be going on.

He could almost taste the cookies he'd seen in a cupboard.

He told Friday to communicate any discoveries to him and directly to the quinjet, then left the room.

He changed clothes quickly, then made his way to his new friend the treadmill, starting at a brisk jog and quickly upping the speed to a punishing pace.

He didn't stop until his lungs felt like they were going to burst.

He imagined slurping down a thick milkshake.

He told Friday to turn up his music as he moved to the rowing machine, pulling the chain roughly and pushing himself to go faster than he'd ever managed before.

Dripping with sweat, he stopped to regain his breath.

His mind thought longingly of an ice cream sundae.

He dropped onto the mats and went through every core exercise he could think of.

The exercise balls in his peripheral vision brought to mind donut holes.

He moved to the weights and went through everything he could do without a spotter, then did it again.

The weights stacked neatly within the machines reminded him of a stack of potato chips.

He even went back to his room and dug out an old wetsuit from his surfing days (why he'd brought it, he couldn't remember) and forced it on, feeling like an overstuffed sausage once he managed to zip it. Then he swam lap upon lap upon lap upon lap until his legs felt like jelly and his arms like limp noodles and of course he would think about it in terms of food.

Food was the only thing on his mind. Food was everything.

He went back to his room yet again, this time to strip and sit despondently in the shower, the hot water washing away the sweat and chlorine but never becoming hot enough to purge his mind of the incessant thoughts of food and the desperate yearning to eat.

When his skin was red and wrinkled, he clumsily climbed to his feet and shut off the water, then stood naked before the mirror to remind the hungry parts within him why excessive eating wasn't a good idea, why it wasn't what he wanted to do.

The hunger was not satisfied.

He slowly got dressed, focusing his attention on each movement lest he lose track and find himself back in the kitchen, stuffing his face.

He left his bedroom, intending to return to the workshop, and found he'd turned the wrong way down the hallway. He carefully reversed course.

It was a relief when he actually arrived at the workshop; he'd resisted temptation that much longer. Temptation wasn't taking kindly to the rejection, however, and he could feel his resolve crumbling.

_No one else was around, who would know?_

_Just once more wouldn't hurt._

He pinched himself, hard, and wracked his brain for some other solution. Drinking might have been an option, but he hadn't replenished his stock and, with how desperate he felt, drinking himself into oblivion seemed more likely than not. Just as well he didn't have any on hand.

The cracks in his resolve grew larger and the wall began to fall.

He spotted the Iron Man suit in the corner. It was there to remind him to try the new configuration in flight. For now, it could serve a different purpose: saving him from himself.


	9. Chapter 9

Whatever he had hoped to accomplish by encasing himself in the armor and having Friday immobilize it, he failed.

For a little while, it seemed like a success: though the hunger did not abate, knowing he was physically incapable of giving in made it a little easier to keep the urge at a distance. He could hear it and study it without succumbing to it.

He took deep breaths and let himself relax into the suit's embrace.

Then, for a brief moment, he forgot himself and tried to adjust his stance. When he could not move, panic flared to life. His heart raced and he struggled to breathe as memories reawakened.

Being buried underwater by fragments of his house, unable to move while water seeped into his suit.

The arc reactor stolen from his paralyzed body.

Losing power and consciousness in the cold void of space.

Suddenly he was falling, crumpling to the floor, the shock of it startling him into taking a deep breath. He curled into a ball, his arms up to protect his head from whatever was coming.

Nothing happened.

As his breathing slowed he became more aware of his surroundings. "Friday?" he questioned, his voice sounding small and frightened.

"The suit was disengaged in response to your prolonged distress," she replied blandly.

He shivered, the chill of the floor seeping through his sweat-damp clothes, and awkwardly pushed himself to his feet, his entire body aching. He wavered unsteadily in front of the suit as he recalled why he'd been inside it in the first place.

Rather than return to his cocoon, he sank onto his rolling chair, his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. 

Friday interrupted his reverie. "It's time for breakfast, boss."

"Of course it is," he said with resignation, but did not move. "What's the ETA on the quinjet?"

"One hour, seven minutes."

He just had to make it through the next hour, then he'd have outside influences to help combat the hunger.

But he'd already endured hours of this and his resistance was worn threadbare. It would give way at any time.

Still, he had a last resort and, as much as he wanted to be strong enough not to need it, he was out of options.

It was either this or give in, and he'd resisted too long to give in now.

He sighed deeply, then reached for his phone. He could have simply told Friday to make the call, but admitting it aloud felt too much like failure.

As soon as the phone started ringing, he wanted to hang up.

"Good morning, this is Dr. Jones."

"I have a question," he said without preamble.

"Go ahead, Tony," she encouraged when he hesitated.

"What am I supposed to do when it's time to eat and I need to eat, but I know that if I start I won't be able to stop?" he asked in a rush of words.

"That's a good question. Why don't you tell me what's going on?"

He told her everything, and finished, "What I should be doing is making breakfast for everyone, since I'm here, and they've been out all night, but . . ."

"What would you like to do?" she asked gently.

"I don't know," Tony said miserably. He was exhausted from the night, from the anxiety attack or whatever that was, from this absurd battle with his own mind.

"Take a few deep breaths and then I want you to do something for me," Dr. Jones said.

He closed his eyes as he breathed. "What's that?" he asked when he was finished.

"You have gone surfing, correct?"

He snorted. "Not lately."

"Think of the urges to eat like they're waves in the ocean. Now imagine yourself surfing these urges the way you surfed the waves. They're there, but you move over them and past them. Right now you're trying to stand against them, and they're overwhelming you."

He could appreciate the metaphor, but he had trouble applying it to the clamoring of the empty hollow. Dr. Jones talked him through it for a while, patiently coaching him, but in vain. He just wasn't getting it, and he despaired of ever being able to resist of the itch to fill himself, much less get rid of it entirely.

If he was going to have to endure this struggle continually, perhaps it was better to just give in and live in peace between binges, his waistline be damned. He said as much to Dr. Jones.

Her response was not what he would have expected. "You could do that," she agreed. "But I think you'd find that those peaceful times in between would gradually shorten and then disappear entirely. And I'm not going to promise that you will ever be entirely free from thoughts of overeating. You won't. But the time between those thoughts will increase and the thoughts themselves will become less powerful as we work together and as you continue your life without bingeing.

"Now I'm going to ask you a question and I want you to give me an honest answer: has there been any amount of time, no matter how short, in the last few hours where you weren't thinking about this urge to eat?"

He had to think about that, and still his answer was hesitant. "Maybe?"

"As you get better at riding these thoughts, you'll find that what feels now like a large, constant need is actually a series of smaller urges that are easier to handle individually than they are collectively. It will take practice and time, but you will get there. You are already ahead of the usual course of treatment."

That startled him. "How can I be ahead when I'm failing so miserably at fighting this?"

"If you had failed, you would have stuffed yourself hours ago," she pointed out. "And I often don't even talk with clients about resisting binges until around this point in the process because they aren't ready, but you were ready to think about it and talk about it from the beginning."

He didn't know what to say. His stomach growled and he sighed, his shoulders slumping. "It was so much easier to give up drinking."

"You don't have to drink to live," Dr. Jones said sagely. "Now, you still need to eat something. What's your plan?"

He didn't have a plan, but she briskly prodded him until he came up with one. Part of it included checking with the team about breakfast preferences, so Dr. Jones bade him farewell. "If it would help to call me back at any point, please do," she said just before hanging up.

Tony took a steadying breath, then said into the comm, "Knock, knock, anybody home?"

"Good morning, shellhead." Barton greeted him entirely too cheerfully.

"Same to you, birdbrain," he retorted. He stood up from his chair and swore reflexively. "Holy shit, ow."

"Does thinking really hurt that much?" Barton teased.

"Laugh it up, you'll be old someday too," Tony grumbled, gingerly straightening and carefully walking making his way toward the elevator despite all the bits that were stiff and sore and scolding him for his over-exercising.

"Was there something you wanted, or did you just miss me?"

"You wish. Two things: what's your ETA and is there any consensus on breakfast?"

"We're about twenty minutes out and we haven't talked breakfast. Steve and Sam are the only ones awake."

"So you're flying in your sleep?" Even with his slower movements, Tony had almost reached the common areas and the motherlode of temptation.

"You don't have to make breakfast, Tony," Steve said, barging in on the conversation. "I can make pancakes when we get there."

"I need to eat something now, so I might as well get everything else started," Tony replied. He stopped on the far side of the kitchen island to gather his courage. He took a banana from the stand; he'd successfully reached step two of the plan.

"Do us all a favor and get some bacon going, then," Sam said.

"Fine, but it's going in the oven. You want it any other way, you do it yourself," Tony said around a mouthful of banana as he turned the oven on and began pulling out the appropriate pans.

"I don't understand why you like that limp ass bacon," Sam complained.

That launched a debate about the merits of floppy or crispy bacon, which other members of the team joined in as they woke up. Tony didn't say much once it got started; his position was clear and anyway he had things to do.

With two pounds of bacon in the oven and the coffee brewing, he started finding and setting out the other stuff they'd need. Creamer for the coffee, which he didn't personally use but he had to smell and taste it to make sure it was still good. He may have poured a fair bit into a cup in order to taste it. Drinking out of the carton was disgusting with so many people sharing it.

Griddle, bowl, whisk, baking mix, and on and on for the pancakes, including chocolate chips. Not that Cap's pancakes needed chocolate chips, but Rhodey had a sweet tooth and sometimes Wanda liked them that way, too. He had no idea how long the bag had been open, so he poured some into his hand to do a taste test. They were fine.

When he turned to pour himself some coffee, he realized he'd not stopped with the taste test and had consumed almost the entirety of the chocolate chips. He eyed the scattering of chips at the bottom of the bag, then shrugged, tipped the rest into his mouth, and shoved the empty bag beneath some other trash in the garbage can before going back to the coffee.

He was torn between the temptation to throw up his hands and give in now that he'd slipped or feel proud that the infraction was a relatively minor one.

The part of him that was ready to give in was starting to win, but then he heard the quinjet landing outside and the chatter in his ear he'd been ignoring stopped completely.

The few minutes it took for the team to appear seemed interminable. He busied himself with checking on the bacon--god, it smelled so good--and setting out enough coffee mugs for everyone. When that didn't take long enough, he started scrambling some eggs so he had something to do with his hands that he couldn't directly eat. And someone would eat the eggs, surely.

In the space between one breath and the next, the empty stillness of the room around him was filled with tired but triumphant Avengers. Well, mostly triumphant. Nat was certain there was a catch or something they'd missed, and Sam was good-naturedly arguing with her about paranoia.

Steve materialized next to Tony, his practiced hands mixing the pancake batter without hesitation even as he leaned toward Tony slightly and asked, "Everything all right?"

"Mostly," Tony answered, scraping the scrambled eggs into a bowl.

Steve might have continued the line of questioning but the timer for the bacon went off so Tony moved to retrieve it and then there were others passing in and out of the kitchen and the moment was lost.

Tony focused on dealing with the bacon, listening to his teammates but feeling somehow detached from the goings-on around him despite his physical proximity. He moved the bacon and the eggs into the cooling oven to stay warmer while the pancakes cooked, but not before he ate a piece of bacon. Then he stepped aside to stay out of the way as the others moved in and around the kitchen.

It was like watching a play or a carefully choreographed dance, each person moving according to their part and somehow not colliding with anyone else even as their paths crossed in complex ways. Rhodey was setting the table, Vision brought him the plates and silverware and whatever else he needed, Wanda was retrieving the butter and juice and other cold things from the fridge, Barton and Natasha were pouring coffee and doctoring each cup according to each team member's preferences, and Sam was frying another pound of bacon in the skillet while Steve continued flipping pancakes, the finished pile next to him quickly growing.

And he didn't seem to fit into that smoothly operating machine.

He didn't seem to fit anywhere anymore. It was a lonely thought. It made him want to eat, and that was a correlation he was going to have to contemplate some other time.

Steve enlisted Vision to help take the food to the table; Tony thought he could help, but before he could find the oven mitts to retrieve the bacon and eggs, Vision had reached in and grabbed them with his bare hands. There were advantages to being an android built with vibranium.

He drifted over to the table. Rhodey rolled his wheelchair into place at one end, so Tony took a chair immediately next to him. He nervously scanned the table and especially the plate of pancakes just in front of him; it would have been much easier to resist eating too much if the food was on the counter. But he might be all right as long as none of the serving dishes ended up by him.

Steve took the chair across from Tony and everyone else settled in and started passing the food around the table. Tony started eating quickly, hoping the three pancakes, four pieces of bacon, and spoonful of eggs would be enough to satisfy his physical hunger. No amount of food would be enough to fill the hollowness.

Then a half full plate of bacon came to rest between his plate and Steve's. "Please don't leave this over here," he said, pushing the plate toward Vision, who sat beside him.

Sam was next to Steve and pushed the plate back. "There isn't room to put it somewhere else. Just leave it."

"Move it. Now," he insisted as he reached out and took two more pieces, shoving one into his mouth whole.

"What the hell? It's your stupid oven bacon, it can stay by you."

"No, it can't." He was already chewing the second piece he'd taken and was willfully stopping his hand from moving toward the plate again.

Whatever conversation had been happening at the other end of the table stopped abruptly as they turned to see what the argument was about.

"Why?"

"Because I'll eat it all," he said through gritted teeth, then ate the last extra syrupy bite of his pancakes.

"So? Somebody needs to because I sure as hell won't," Sam said. "What's your problem, Stark?"

"It's called a fucking eating disorder. I've had a rough morning and I just need to not have this staring me in the face, all right?"

Complete silence fell.

Tony fixed his gaze his empty plate, idly swirling the tines of his fork through a puddle of syrup, unable to stomach seeing the team's reaction to his weakness.

Rhodey reached out and laid a hand on his arm. He glanced at it, then Rhodey's face; all he saw in his expression was concern. He nodded slightly, and Rhodey removed his hand.

"I'll take more bacon," Barton said cheerfully into the silence, and that seemed to be the signal to resume the meal. Steve passed the plate down and asked for the syrup in return, and the clatter of eating was the only sound for several minutes.

Tony was thinking about excusing himself since he was already finished and shouldn't have any more, but then Rhodey said, "We missed having you with us for the mission."

"You've got a suit. You don't need me," he replied.

"It's not the same," Steve said in agreement.

"You've got the tech genius. I've just got the guns," Rhodey added.

"And nobody else continues my jokes," Barton said from his end of the table.

"Sometimes that's a good thing," Sam said under his breath.

"Your contributions are unique and valued," Vision said sagely.

"Okay, you can stop now," Tony said wearily. "I don't know what you're trying to do, but it's not a good look."

"They're trying to say you have a place on the team no matter what is going on with you," Natasha said. "But, being male, they're bad at it."

Tony stared at her, then cleared his throat. "Right. Well, I need to shower. Excuse me."

No one tried to stop him, and he heard the soft murmur of conversation resume as he left the room.

He tried not to wonder if they were talking about him.

 

Tony made it through showering, getting dressed, and shaving before he again felt the pang he associated with the itching hunger and the bottomless hollow. He tried the mental image of surfing that Dr. Jones had suggested and maybe it helped, it was hard to be sure.

He also recognized a feeling of loneliness that he countered with what had been said at breakfast, though he wasn't sure he really believed it. Still, that was more than he had before and he needed all the help he could get.

He crawled into bed and quickly fell into an exhausted sleep.

 

Tony slept the rest of the morning, waking to his stomach growling for lunch. The other hunger had quieted while he slept; the stiffness from his frenzied exercise had gotten worse. He'd take being in pain at the simplest movement over the post-overeating misery any day.

He wasn't sure what to expect at lunch but knew better than to delay eating in hopes of avoiding his teammates. Once again they surprised him: the only reference to what had happened at breakfast was Steve coming up beside him while he slowly assembled his sandwich and quietly saying, "If there's anything we can do to help, tell someone. We'll spread the word if you don't want to have to talk about it in front of everyone."

Tony nodded briefly. "Thanks," he said, and meant it.

This time it only took him a day to realize they were back to the never-leave-Tony-alone routine. Rather than feel stifled like he did the first time, he felt oddly touched by the gesture, fruitless as it was. It wasn't a good use of their time, now that he was back on his food plan and feeling pretty good about it.

So Tony did something that would have been unthinkable even two days earlier: he told the team the barest details about his disorder and about the scheduled eating times that were meant to combat it. "So you don't need to continue with this follow-Tony-around nonsense. As long as I'm eating when I should, odds are I'm doing fine."

"And if you aren't?" Rhodey asked seriously. He'd already taken Tony to task privately for not telling him what was going on earlier.

"I'll tell you," Tony promised.

Rhodey snorted. "I'll believe that when I see it," he said, but he was smiling a little.

Despite the conversation, Tony found he was in the company of one or more teammates more often than not. He also found he didn't mind.

His next chat with Dr. Jones was the following day. He found himself looking forward to talking to her about that morning two days ago. It's not that he was proud of eating those things he shouldn't, but he'd done a hell of a lot better at keeping the eating under control than he'd ever managed before. Surely the next time would be easier still to manage.

Dr. Jones greeted him the same as always. "Hello, Tony. How are you doing?"

His usual response was a perfunctory "Fine." This time, he said, "Good. I'm doing good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Resources consulted in the course of writing this story (in no particular order):  
> [Oxford Handbook of Eating Disorders](http://www.worldcat.org/title/oxford-handbook-of-eating-disorders/oclc/709681846?referer=di&ht=edition)  
> Food and Addiction: A Comprehensive Handbook  
> [Treatment plans and interventions for bulimia and binge-eating disorder](http://www.worldcat.org/title/treatment-plans-and-interventions-for-bulimia-and-binge-eating-disorder/oclc/759584860&referer=brief_results)  
> [Cognitive Behavior Therapy and Eating Disorders](http://www.worldcat.org/title/cognitive-behavior-therapy-and-eating-disorders/oclc/191127602&referer=brief_results)  
> [Rapid response to treatment for binge eating disorder](https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/16822116)  
> [Predicting meaningful outcomes to medication and self-help treatments for binge-eating disorder in primary care: The significance of early rapid response](https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/25622201)  
> [Rapid response in psychological treatments for binge eating disorder](https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/25867446)


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